Tuesday November 17,2015
from an e-mail
I just moved here and my friend Toby in Atlanta said he did one of these Craigslist posts when he first moved there and he met some cool people so… Here goes nothing!
What you might want to know about me:
I clench my teeth when I sleep.
I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter with chocolate chip hats on top for breakfast three out of seven mornings a week.
I have a holier-than-thou attitude towards two things and two things only – politicians and buzz-cuts (politicians with buzz-cuts – BEWARE).
I wear platform shoes even though I can’t really walk in them because being tall is a totally viable aspiration.
I have never smoked a cigarette, gone para-sailing, touched a nipple, eaten squid, shopped at the Gap, or liked the colour fuchsia. (Fuck fuchsia!)
I’m looking for friendship and love in whatever shape, form, size, quadrant, place, space, etc. etc. I don’t discriminate. I just pontificate! Wut wut!
Monday November 16, 2015
We finally got a TIGGER! My Tigger came from the Round. You know the Round? Do you know things like that, Diary? I don’t know. This is my first one so I’m not exactly sure what you know and what you don’t know or if you’re just, like, me, or if you’re something else entirely! Okay. So, back to the point. Sheesh. We got my Tigger at the Round. It’s where other Tigger’s go when they lose their Mamas or their houses. We went there on Sunday, on the Sunday-before-my-birthday-party-Sunday, and we walked around and all the Tigger’s were crying! It was so sad I actually cried too. My Mama said, “Don’t cry Nelly! We’re gonna save one of these lil’ guys!” That cheered me up so I stopped. When we saw our Tigger I absolutely knew that it was ours because it looked at me like it knew me. She looked at me like she knew me. (She’s a girl Tigger.)
Sunday November 15, 2015
from the Union Gospel Mission calendar
bomb bomb finger on the trigger wait for the warning there isn’t one there isn’t one my neighbour hits his cat kicks his dog i think that’s bad i think that’s what’s bad what are we to do tell our children go to school hair in pigtails i’m a child a pretty little liar what do you want my money my hunger my fear my fear my fear your fear murders the innocents here we go again we’ve been here before why can’t we learn why can’t we love i see the glass half full usually but now it’s broken on the floor on the t-shirt with the blood stains on the scream the fear the fear the nightmare is real
Saturday November 14, 2015
from a tweet
The oldest survivor, Maya, white braids woven around her head like a brain basket, lives on the Big Island of Hawaii. When I visit her, careful not to step on the wildflowers and cacti that line the path towards her door, she opens it before I can raise my fist to knock. “You’re here,” she says, like she knows me, like she knew that I would have a sunburned nose. “I’m here!” I say, unsure what to do besides parrot. Maya leads me into her kitchen and cracks a coconut open with a machete on her countertop. She’s plump in the most beautiful way, her arms strong and her shoulders broad. They’ve carried waves. They’ve carried change. They’ve carried children and banana leaves.
Friday November 13, 2015
from a business card
When we buy the house, we know what we’re getting ourselves into. Or, we fool ourselves into thinking we do. “We want to pour love into our home!” We say. “It’s a fixer upper!” We say.
Seven months into renovations, Kelly is three weeks away from giving birth and she’s ready to kill. If you’ve never been around a pregnant woman who wants to brood but can’t, you really haven’t ever seen rage. She’s normally such a level headed woman, I mean that’s why I married her. Also for her incredible intelligence and wicked banana pancakes. That and her ass. She’s got a great ass.
Wednesday November 18,2015
from a tweet by the Globe and Mail
When we’re alone after a full day of kissing my family and eating tortelli you tell me there’s this new game you can’t wait to play when we get home. I don’t know why, but this bothers me. I can’t tell why I’m upset by this. You’re not hurting me by playing. Or are you? I haven’t figured out why my insides are twisting and my veins are pulsing. Am I looking for a reason to be mad at you? I try to delay my response because I’m worried it’ll come out naggy, or pissed off. I would much rather come to the conclusion of my feelings before involving you in an outburst. Is it because I wish I had something to look forward to when we go home? Is it because we have plans when we get home and you’re blowing me off? Do we have plans at all? I’m mad at how mad I am without quite knowing why. I rack my brain for instances to refresh my memory about why it is I can’t handle this decision. It seems like one you’ve made before. I remember that. Or something like it…
Tuesday November 17,2015
from an e-mail
Went to church when I was younger I guess, so I have this really big soft spot for budding Christians. Not the full blown ones, I have no room for those. But the ones who are starting to feel community and straight-edged living are the ones I see myself in. So many of my beliefs were centered around permission and guilt and acceptance and guilt and lying and begging and praying and guilt. Like I was sand being shaken back and forth in an hourglass. Always trying not to be wrong. Always trying to right the wrong. Always being wrong. Always feeling bad for being wrong. But there in the community where we’d raise our hands to the Lord and sway them back and forth while our eyes were closed and our hearts exploded, we felt like pieces cut out of the same felt, glued onto bristol board to form a perfect circle; the poster kids for The Lost.